End game
by Drake S. Hellion
Summary: At the end of a week through hell a single 18 year old stand with his back to the wall while the undead horde approaches waiting for his death by making his last stand and finally a release from the torments of his life. RnR and I own nothing.


**End game**

_AN: Just a completely random oneshot idea I had while listening to music, seems kinda depressing when I read it, but meh, it killed time. Anywho, if you can read, you can __**review. **_

_**PS.** Yes, these are slow zombies, I didn't want to put this in the Resident Evil area._

Oliver liked to think he didn't ask for much in his life. He like to think he asked for nothing more than small favors.

Favors that were never granted.

"Hmm…" he grunted lowly, the rain hitting him and sending a pleasant chill through his body. "What a nice day to die…" he mumbled.

They were coming for him, the undead horde that wanted to kill him, eat him and finally make him one of their own.

He eyed their mutilated faces and bodies, ragged clothes and sickly gray flesh. That however no longer bothered him, a week on this earth which had effectively become a circle of hell had done things to his mind, death had lost it's toll on his mind.

A shot rang out from Oliver's 1911 pistol, one of the walking dead fell to the ground, sporting a third eye on it's forehead.

Killing, if it could be called killing at all. Had become routine for Oliver.

It had become his life in one week.

Two more shots, two more spent casing clattered to the ground and Oliver recoiled his weapon, dropping the magazine to the ground he smoothly retrieved another from his pocket and slid the new one in and cocked the slide.

The click of both life and death signalled in his mind.

He raised the weapon again, his brown eye narrow as it travelled down the sights and found the head of a another undead.

Watching the body fall he tilted his head in almost fascination as he watched more join the ranks of the undead, his shots having attracted them to him.

He was calling death.

He glanced to his back, nothing but the wall and locked door that lead to the roof of the building. He could shoot the lock, yes, he could run, yes.

But he wasn't.

Turning back to the horde he watched their soulless milky white eyes for any signs of humanity, there were none.

"As always…" he mumbled, bringing up his weapon and firing and killing another.

He knew it was pointless, with only two more magazines left in his pocket and a single Kukri, he knew all too well that he was going to die.

And it didn't bother him.

"Finally…" he mumbled, staring as another two shots rang out, accompanied by two more falling bodies.

The magazine slid out with a click of his index finger, by the time it hit the ground the new and last one was already slid into place with a click.

Cracking his neck he brought up the weapon again, the horde continued towards him like a wall of flesh, unrelenting, unfeeling and simple.

He fired again, noting the horde was now about a street away of his stationary position.

That also didn't bother him.

He had seen other panic and run at the sight of an undead that was several blocks away, seen others break under the weight of seeing their loved ones come back and try to attack them.

He had never broken.

With a twitch of his eyes he brought the pistol up again then fired and another corpse fell to the ground.

The more rational part of his mind briefly flashed an image of the door and easily shoot able lock to use as an escape route.

He pushed it away and focused on using his last four shots on the horde.

The pistol was brought up again and a shot rang out with another falling body, then two more.

And finally the last shot rang out and to him, it echoed for eternity, it would echo as long as he lived inside his mind.

Brining the weapon up and examining it quickly, then tossing it carelessly to the side he reaching behind his back and gripped the handle of the large knife. There was sound of metal leaving sheath as he slowly pulled it from it's case.

The now freed knife glinted a menacing and beautiful silver with dull splotches of red to the undead horde who paid no heed to it and continued to advance.

Just as he knew they would.

They were within room distance now and he moved forward, taking five steps he swung the Kukri with enough force to cut the frail neck of what was once an old woman, severing her head from the body.

Killing her again

A mental image of his laughing grandma flashed through his mind, then was replaced by the mutilated and mauled face of the creature she had become and tried to kill him so many days ago.

He felt the bitterness, regret and sadness bite at his heart.

He ignored it and stepped back when another lazily stumbled towards him with arms out and jaw hanging open hungrily.

With an almost careless air he brought his arms up and used them to moved the undead arms to the sides, leaving the undead to try and tear his flesh off.

It never got that chance.

It's head rolled away as Oliver spun on his feet and brought the kukri around to sever the neck from the shoulders.

Letting the body fall to the ground he took three steps back as the horde was now almost within a beds distance of him, their rotting flesh's smell invading his nostrils.

And again, it didn't bother him.

He knew it would be painful, the end of his life.

The would bite and tear at any piece of his flesh that they could sink their teeth into, they would not care for his screams of agony as they shed his blood in such a violent and brutal manner.

Just like they had his parents, friends and other family members.

The screams of his mother as they swarmed the house.

The cries of his siblings

The angered curses and yells of his father as he fought to get to his youngest son.

All were replaced by dead moans and groans.

"You bastards…" Oliver mumbled as he raised the kukri and got into a defensive stance. "You took it all…"

The images came again, his grandma, mother and father, grandpa, bothers and sisters, friends…All of them turned into horrible creatures that he had to kill to survive.

He had to kill them again to ensure his own life continued.

In that moment, those last few minutes of his remaining life before it was ripped and torn away from him.

Oliver broke.

He let the tears fall from his eyes, releasing choked sobs and let his emotions out from the wall he had them in.

He silently prayed in his head that he would see his loved one again in whatever afterlife there was.

God owed him that much.

The horde stumbled onto him and it began, the first set of jaws sunk into his wrist, he bit his lip, but then cried out in agony as more teeth lined his legs, arms and body.

His screams died down shortly after.

He had reached the end of his game.

**The End game.**


End file.
